those living waves, die one after another, monotonously, but they make no foaming sound

the bird of passage rests on the waves, then abandons himself to their movements, full of proud grace, until the bones of his wings have recovered their accustomed strength and he can continue his aerial pilgrimage..... i want to die lulled by the waves of the stormy sealautréamont - maldoror (46, 47)